Winners and Losers
by ItBeatsMe
Summary: Everyone gambles; sometimes they lose, and sometimes they win.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Thanks to space77 for the beta and dealing with the many revisions. Spoilers for Soldier on the Grave and Woman in the Sand.  
_

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This was the chaos he loved, a chaos that often got him into trouble. People's voices mingled with the slap of cards, the roll of the dice, the rustling of wheels. From his vantage, he could see the paths that were made between crowds, tables, and machines. Slot machines were some of the worst odds at a casino, and still he marveled at the throngs of people who occupied them day after day.

Booth sighed and leaned back in his chair, nudging his nearly empty glass to the middle of the table. He had no idea why he was torturing himself with the sights, the sounds of winning. Shaking his head, he stood up and grabbed his glass, finishing it off as he made his way to the bar.

"Can I get you anything else?" The bartender took his glass, dumped the ice behind the counter, and set the glass to the side.

"Coffee, please." Booth's voice was rough from the smoke filled room and the alcohol he'd just gulped. The bartender placed a cup in front of him and poured the coffee, smiling at him knowingly. Booth flashed her a hesitant smile as he returned to his table, intent on staring his addiction in the face a bit longer.

Setting his coffee down, he fished his lucky poker chip from his pocket and sat down. The chip passed easily between his fingers, from index to ring and back. A loud cheer reverberated through the building. Booth glanced into the casino and noticed the large crowd at a craps table – the table nearest to the bar, nearest to him. His eye caught on a woman with black hair and wild clothes. His eyes widened when he saw who it was, and her gaze pierced his before he quickly turned away.

Angela couldn't believe it; here he was, a gambling addict in a casino bar. She nudged Hodgins with her elbow, tilting her head to the bar at his questioning gaze. Glancing at the bar, he turned back to Angela and shrugged. Rolling her eyes, she lightly slapped his head and stepped away from the crowd. She made her way through the bar and to his table, sitting down next to him.

Booth's gaze was again locked on the movement of his hand – the movement, and the poker chip itself, relaxed him. He felt Angela's presence beside him and knew her eyes were also locked on his hand.

Ring finger, over middle, to index and back again.

"Booth?" Angela's gentle voice broke him from his reverie, and he forced his gaze away from his lucky chip. She could see he wasn't in a mood to talk and, after glancing at his coffee cup, left to get a cup of her own.

In the moments after she left, Booth squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed his hand through his brown hair and over his drawn face. He blinked and reoriented himself as Angela sat down, shooting him a concerned glance. The craps table roared again, but Booth couldn't look – wouldn't look – away from Angela's pointed gaze.

The semi-awkward silence was beginning to grate on Angela. Slowly taking another sip of her coffee, she debated whether to call Brennan. Angela considered Booth a friend, but her friendship wasn't what he needed – she had no idea _what_ he needed. Setting down her cup, she grabbed her phone from her pocket. Flipping it open, she started to press the speed dial but suddenly stopped. She could feel Booth's gaze and it practically burned her skin.

"Angela, please," Booth pleaded.

"You have a choice, either go home or I call Bren. I can't watch you torture yourself, and there's no way I'm leaving you here alone."

Booth sighed and flopped his head onto the table. Letting out a big breath, he sat up and looked around one last time. The craps table Angela had just left roared again, this time drawing both their gazes. Angela turned away, back to Booth, and watched the war that was happening right behind his eyes – shame, desire, and self-hatred. Angela put a hand on his arm, gently redirecting his attention. Booth nodded imperceptibly, and Angela picked up her phone and dialed.

"I need a cab at Zeberelli's Casino, I don't know the address." After a second, a mumbled "thanks" and she focused on Booth again. "They'll be here in five minutes. Want me to walk you out?"

"Thanks, Angela. I'll be fine."

Booth threw some bills on the table before walking away, not once glancing back. Angela watched as his eyes scanned the casino for the last time that night and – again – silently thanked Jack's random compulsion to spend the night at DC's one casino. Crumpling a napkin and wiping the edges of her mouth, she threw it in her cup before taking both hers and Booth's back to the bar.

"Can I get two Jack and Coke's?" The bartender began making the drinks as Angela leaned her forearms on the bar and looked around. She caught Jack's eye and gave him a beaming smile – which he returned. Once her drinks were ready, she dragged a small tip from her too-tight jeans pocket, grabbed the drinks, and murmured a thank you as she strode toward Jack – glancing out at Booth one last time.

Leaning against a pillar as he waited for a cab to take him somewhere – though he had no idea where - Booth saw the cab slow to a stop a few feet ahead of him. As he walked toward it, the casino doorman opened the passenger door. Booth mumbled a thank you as the kid slammed the door shut and slapped the roof twice.

"Alexandria. 4507 King."

Booth's head lolled back onto the seat and his eyes closed. He'd only had one drink at the bar – not enough, but still too much – and couldn't blame his muddled thoughts on the alcohol. Images of soldiers shooting, children crying out for their mothers, and fathers having the look of helplessness he knew too well invaded his consciousness. He had gotten to know a number of locals during his deployments, and he could now understand the helpless and pleading looks he received from fathers just trying to protect their families; to grant them one more month, one more day, hell, even one more minute of innocence.

Booth's eyes fluttered open as the cab slowed to a stop outside the dark house. Rolling his head to the side, he paused and allowed himself to simply watch the quiet life he'd once dreamed of.

"Are we going to sit here all night or are you going to go home to your wife?"

The driver's voice broke the spell and Booth's head snapped up. Shaking his head, he paid the driver and stepped out of the car. Slowly, he walked to the porch; he couldn't force himself to walk up the two stairs and knock. It was late and he had no right to be here, but he was still rooted to the spot – not quite encroaching, but not retreating. His legs buckled and he plopped onto the second step, his body nearly parallel to the door and his head falling to his hands.

"Seeley?"

Rebecca's quiet, hesitant voice punctured his thoughts. He turned his head in his hands and waited – for what, he had no idea. From the corner of his eye, he could see her standing in the doorway with a confused look on her face. A light breeze kicked up, and he saw her rub her bare arms for warmth while his own fevered skin relished the feel of the wind.

Rebecca glanced into the house, then made her way out to him. He looked so lost, so not the Seeley she knew. Leaning against the porch column, her frame oriented toward his side, she met his unfocused gaze. Her one real conversation with Temperance – _Bones_ – niggled at the back of her memory. What she saw in his eyes was untouchable to her, all except for one thing – the one thing she could do for him tonight.

Reaching out her hand to him, she saw him weigh up her gesture. As she tipped her head toward the house in invitation, the part of her that still loved him couldn't help but feel sad at his hesitation. Questioning eyes met confident ones, and his uncertain grasp met her steady hand. Rebecca moved toward him as he stood, and with one last knowing – _loving_ – glance she led him into the house and shut the door.

She turned and dropped his hand, and he looked around this new life she had made for herself. Booth once thought he'd be the one to give her – and himself – this life; house, children, and backyard barbecues. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, and after his survey he focused on her again. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, her hair mussed and wearing boxers and an oversized shirt, he felt a small pang at what he'd lost all those years before.

"He has school in a few hours, don't forget." Rebecca slowly took the stairs one at a time, her gaze lowered.

"Becca?" His soft voice was loud in the silence of night. She stopped ascending the stairs and twisted her body, and Booth knew she saw the tears he was desperately trying to control. At her soft gaze and knowing nod, he smiled slightly. He took a deep breath and attempted to control his emotions. Walking slowly up the stairs, he wiped the unshed tears from his eyes. At the top of the steps, he paused and glanced at the closed door of the master bedroom before stepping into his son's room. Quietly opening the half-shut door, he gazed at his little boy sprawled across his twin bed – his far leg sticking out of the sports car sheets. With fatherly adoration, Booth straightened the sheet so Parker was fully covered. He then fell to his knees and prayed – for his son, and for himself. When his eyes opened, he saw Parker's half-lidded gaze staring up at him. Booth put a finger to his mouth in a plea for silence before smoothing back Parker's blond curls. Leaning forward, he kissed Parker's cheek and felt a tear fall onto his little boy's face.

"Love you, buddy," Booth whispered.

"Love you too, Dad," Parker replied sleepily.

Booth pulled himself up and, again, wiped tears from his eyes.

"Daddy?" Parker's voice was quiet, but it still startled him. Looking down at his little boy, he felt a small smile pull at his cheeks.

"Yeah, Bud?"

"Will you drive me to school in the morning?"

Parker's eyes drifted closed, and Booth chuckled slightly. The happiness Parker's presence evoked in him dulled most of the sadness or guilt Booth felt at missing such basic things in his son's life – at least for tonight.

Kissing Parker's cheek one last time, he slowly made his way down the stairs. Booth was glad he and Becca were finally at a good place, and that his unexpected visit was met with the understanding he didn't realize he needed. Seeing Parker almost always helped when he was faced with the urge to gamble – to throw away his life for that one addicting rush.

It wasn't until he closed the front door and strode down the porch steps that he pulled his cell phone and called another cab. He wasn't quite ready to go home, and she had told him he could drop by anytime. It was so late that he wished he wasn't going to show up at her door, needing company, but he knew himself; he knew he needed her tonight.

It took his eyes a second to see the cab stopped in front of him; took him a second to convince his arm to open the door. Dropping his body into the back seat, he mumbled her address and flopped his head back. Closing his eyes, he focused on only her smile and drifted to sleep.

Booth felt a light shake and his eyes opened and blearily saw the driver motion to the apartment building. He then noticed they were stopped and shook his head to clear the sleep. After paying the driver, he stepped out of the cab and gazed at the building. In his mind, Booth compared his melancholic reverie from Becca's house to Bones' apartment building – _no contest_.

A small smile tugged at his mouth as he made his way to her apartment. Bypassing the elevator for the stairs, he took his time and weighed up what he wanted to say; he was fairly sure Angela would've called her after he left the casino. Booth was glad he went to see Parker before coming here; Parker helped him focus, reminded him of his future and all it held. He was hoping she'd soon be in the same position, part of his future -_ and not just as a work partner_.

He stood at her door and stared, working up the nerve to knock. He played the different scenarios in his mind; she could have company, but if Angela had called Bones would've asked whomever it was to leave. Maybe she was sound asleep, in which case he felt bad about waking her. Taking a deep breath, he raised a shaking hand and knocked. He wasn't nervous, but his body and mind were still reeling from the casino – _my son has magical powers, but even he's not that good._

Startled awake by the knock on her door, Temperance slowly sat up on the couch and wiped her eyes – _about time he got here_. Using her arm to aid her tired muscles, she pushed to her feet and made her way to the door.

"I'm coming," she said tiredly as another knock sounded.

Her hand reached for the knob, but she looked through the peephole before opening the door. Her glancing inspection confirmed he looked horrible; his shoulders were slumped, his eyes were red, his stubble was at twelve rather than five, and his fingers were nervously fidgeting with his constant – _lucky_ – poker chip.

Booth flashed her a weary smile. Her body was hidden by the open door, and Booth accepted the unspoken invitation; he breezed past her and half sat on the arm of her couch. Temperance closed and locked the door, then leaned her tired body against it, both for support and to give Booth his space.

"Hi," Booth said nervously.

His gentle voice soothed her, and she noticed his soft eyes trail over her form. He gave her a hesitant smile and began playing with his poker chip again. She could tell he was nervous, but she needed a minute to catalogue his features; she now noticed that his eyes looked a bit sunken – _exhausted _– and his hair was sticking up on one side.

"I made coffee, though it's probably cold now."

Temperance tilted her head toward the kitchen and led him to the hours-old coffee. Opening the cupboard and reaching up for two mugs, she heard a splash and then running water. She placed the mugs on the counter and turned around, only to see him getting another pot of coffee going.

Listening to the brewing coffee, Temperance surveyed their positions – Booth was on one side of the kitchen while she remained across from him, her hands braced on the counter behind her.

"I don't know what to say," he said wearily.

"It's fine, Booth."

Booth's face showed a ghost of a smile. She wasn't sure if he needed a push from her, or if this was one of those times he just needed company. Being unsure made her uncomfortable, but she was trying to keep that from him – _though he probably picked up on that right away, damn him_.

Temperance studied him; with crossed arms and head down, she wondered where his mind was. While she knew about his gambling past on a superficial level, she had no idea what really happened, or what drove him so close to 'falling off the tables', as he would say.

When the coffee maker silenced, Booth felt rather than heard her take a spot next to him, and unsurprisingly his bowstring muscles slacked a bit at her proximity. He glanced at her with raised eyebrow, and at her slight nod lifted the carafe from its base. Pouring the dark brew into the mugs she offered, he couldn't help glancing at her eyes – _studying me like she does the bones on her exam table_.

"Thank you," Booth said softly as he took a mug from her. He followed Bones back to her couch and watched as she folded onto it – one leg under her, her back against the arm, and the other leg bent in front of her. Booth sat next to her, not quite touching but close enough to maintain the psychic support he'd felt since arriving.

The coffee table in front of the couch featured a few magazines, and after taking a sip of his hot coffee he laid his mug on an older copy of _Forensic_. Elbows resting on his knees and eyes screwed shut, he prepared to tell her everything – or at least everything he was ready to tell. His mind flashed on images of war: guns firing, buddies bleeding, and the locals whose lives were changed forever.

"At Ranger training, a few of us started a regular poker game. After we were sent overseas, we still found time to play. Hell, sometimes we even had games that would last for days – a play before or after a mission or whatever."

Opening his eyes, Booth leaned back and angled his body toward Bones.

"Some soldiers, they write a letter home and keep it with them so that if they get killed, their family gets one last letter. One of my buddies wrote that it was the only thing that kept him alive. Every time he went out, all he wanted was to do the job and get back to the game."

"You read it?" Temperance asked softly.

Booth closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand across his face.

"A mortar hit our camp and he died instantly. I tried to save him, I really did."

Booth sighed and leaned forward again, elbows resting heavily on his knees and his head down.

"Of that original group, me and one other guy made it back alive. We drove to Vegas and all we did was gamble, get drunk, and have one-night stands. I felt so out of control, and gambling made out of control feel okay."

Booth sighed. "I'm not explaining this well. It was so much more than that, but everything is so…" He couldn't explain it any better, couldn't find the words. He felt her gentle touch on his arm and reveled in the comfort. His opposite hand covered hers in silent thanks, and they sat like that – thankful for each other's company, but respecting the silence.

Booth wished he could stay silent, at least about his Army days and gambling past, forever. He knew Bones was good at compartmentalizing, but so was he when it was necessary. But it was time to stop making excuses and lay it all out there – _even though it feels like slowly ripping off a Band-Aid_.

Temperance watched him – _studied him_ – and felt an interesting combination of sadness and pride. Sadness for what he'd endured both in the Army and as a veteran of war, but proud that he was talking about something that was obviously painful. She was also proud of herself, that by just being there for him in silent support – _with an occasional nudge_ – she was doing all she could. Angela would be proud of that, she thought wryly.

There was so much more Booth was still hiding, she could tell. For as much as she was constantly told she wasn't good with people, Temperance was good with **him**. _For him_, Angela's voice sounded in her head. She nearly launched into how that was scientifically impossible, but one look at her partner – _her friend_ – and her focus was again on him.

Booth met her eyes and saw her soft yet concerned gaze, quickly making his decision. Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he stood up and took his half-empty coffee cup into the kitchen. Refilling it slowly, he sat down instead at the kitchen table, leaning on his forearms and rotating the cup nervously. He knew Bones had moved next to him but he was determined to tell her everything; if he looked up at her, he'd lose his nerve.

"Remember that guy in Vegas, my old Army buddy?"

"Frank Daniels," Temperance said matter-of-factly.

Booth's head snapped up, more out of reflex than conscious thought. He was sure his face reflected how astonished he felt, but sometimes he forgot how brilliant she really was. Her arms crossed on the table for support, he felt the ghost of a smile at her half-confused, half-amused look. Shaking his head, he gazed back into the black depths of his coffee.

"It was so easy to lose ourselves in the game. I wanted to tell Frank to go home to his wife, but I didn't want to be alone. One night we were playing craps and Karen, Frank's wife – "

"Ex-wife," Temperance muttered.

"She showed up and I saw Frank go to the bar to try and explain. I watched them argue and I felt guilty about dragging him to Vegas with me. But as soon as the table cheered, it was back to the game and nothing else mattered." Booth tilted his head and looked up at her, "Not even Frankie."

Booth shook his head, eyes locked to the table. Temperance's hand lay relaxed against her coffee mug, fingers barely touching it, and after a slight hesitation Booth slid his hand under hers.

"I was so mad at him for leaving me – the guys that were killed, they had no choice. Frank had a choice.

Temperance nearly flinched. She knew that feeling, knew the powerlessness that can overwhelm a person. Their circumstances were drastically different, but she understood the bond soldiers feel – she had seen it in the faces of the soldiers left behind. She saw it in Booth's face and heard it in his confession.

Remembering his reaction to Frank in Vegas, she frowned. "But in Vegas – "

"He's family, Bones," Booth interrupted. He smiled slightly and met Temperance's eyes. She understood - when he told her there was more than one type of family, he was talking about himself, too. His smile faded and his gaze fell to their joined hands.

"It was another five months. Five months of gambling, five months of alcohol – five months of guys like Lou Mackie."

"What changed?"

"This one night after a bad run at the craps table, I went to the bar for a drink. This older guy asked me about the dog tags I wore around my neck, my dad's tags from Vietnam. Said he was a Nam vet, too. He kept talking about how hard it was for him to come home, to readjust to life without this family he'd lived and died with. He told me… 'I was a field medic over there; I watched too many soldiers die and a lot of times there was nothing I could do to help. But there is now.'"

Booth sniffed and blinked, trying to hold back the tears He'd never be able to convey, even to Bones, the impact that man had on his life. The first meeting Booth went to was because of him, a vet who had learned to readjust the hard way.

Temperance squeezed Booth's hand and stood up. She wasn't about to let Booth go home or, even worse, back to the casino, but they both needed some sleep. She really didn't care if it was over Booth's self-imposed line.

"It's late, Booth. You can sleep in the guest room."

Temperance thought he would argue about it, but all she saw on his face was exhaustion. He looked defeated; hands clasped together on the table, his body slouched in the wooden chair, and his eyes unfocused.

Booth nodded. The anxiety, the memories – everything was exhausting. He didn't have the energy to fight her, nor did he want to. Even so, the nightmares that haunted him on nights like this worried him; he didn't want anyone, even Bones, to see what they did to him.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," Bones said matter-of-factly before walking away.

Booth sighed and pushed himself up. Running a hand through his hair, he made his way to the bathroom. His clothes reeked of smoke, one aspect of casinos he didn't miss. He caught a glimpse, through her nearly-closed door, of Bones grabbing what he assumed was pajamas; he knew she'd kick his ass for it, but he lingered and watched her as she pulled her bed sheets down before disappearing to what he assumed was her bathroom. He shook his head – _what am I doing?_ – and made his way to the guest bathroom.

Booth knew he had many more demons to tell her about someday, but that could wait. She would argue and say she could handle it, but Booth wasn't sure _he_ could. With a sigh, he stripped down to his boxers, used the bathroom, and went into the guest room. Dropping to his knees, he rested his elbows on the bed and brought his clasped hands to his face.

Temperance stood in the doorway and watched him pray. They were so different in so many ways, yet their friendship was so strong. As he crossed himself – a gesture she still didn't understand - she broke the silence.

"Night, Booth."

Booth gave her a small smile, though it was the biggest she'd seen from him since opening her door earlier that night - _morning_. He walked over to her and, without looking, put his hand over the light switch.

"Thank you." Booth gently kissed Temperance's cheek and, though she still stood in front of him, turned the light off. As she went back to bed, she shook her head. Seems he didn't care about that damn line either.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to space, who helps in many ways - including a continuity issue I missed!

--

_Walking back to his post at the door, Booth sat down and leaned his rifle against the wall next to him. With a sigh of exhaustion, he looked down at his bloody hands; he had been ordered to cut the boy's finger off, and while the order was one he'd followed multiple times, the hostage had never been so young. He could still hear the kid, not much older than seven or eight, crying and asking for paladin. Booth knew the term from his Catholic faith, but he had no idea who the kid was talking about._

_Dropping his hands, he watched as a pair of black boots stepped into his line of sight – which consisted of a dusty floor. His body snapped up and he aimed his rifle at the unknown invasion._

_"Why'd you do it, Booth?" Temperance asked, her voice sharp. In her hand was Donovan Decker's severed finger._

_"It's my job," he said mechanically._

_He brushed past her and left the service station. Without thought, he walked to the crest of the hill, dropped to the ground, and crawled into position. Balloons marked the area, making his target easy to sight. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. Instantly, his view through the scope was obscured by blood. He lifted his head to verify his kill._

_Curly blond hair splattered with blood was all he saw._

"PARKER!" Sweating and tangled in his sheets, Booth could've sworn DC was having an earthquake. His heart was both racing and pounding so hard that every beat sounded like a hammer. Raising his palms to his eyes, he pressed hard. He needed to erase the images of his nightmare, but the pain also afforded him a release.

He sat up, untangled the covers, and trailed his unfocused eyes around the room. He was slowly waking up, slowly remembering where he was, and remembering the previous night. Looking out the window blinds, the slivers of dark blue he found there told him it was early morning. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His nightmare had taken a new twist, and he sure as hell didn't like it.

He concentrated on his breathing – _deep breath in, let it out_ – and tried not to live through the nightmare. It was a technique a doctor back on base had taught him; concentrate on breathing and keep reminding yourself that the nightmare isn't reality. It worked, even with some of his flashbacks, 'because what you're reliving may have been a reality in the past, but it is not your physical reality now,' as the doctor had told him. He stood up and – still thinking about his Army doctor's advice – took himself out of the physical space.

Throwing on a white t-shirt, he padded to the kitchen and wondered if Bones had heard his scream. Either she had ignored it – _at least till morning_ – or slept through it. He wished she was a heavy sleeper, but after their handful of late night cases, he knew she woke at the drop of a pin. With a sigh, he grabbed a glass from the cupboard, got the carton of milk from the refrigerator, and poured himself a large drink. After putting the carton back in the fridge, he took his glass to the couch and sat down.

Body relaxed against the back of the couch and feet on the coffee table, he drank his milk and thought about his night. It wasn't any one thing that prompted him to go to the casino. It was just one of those random urges. A memory, a smell, even a word could set his mind to that train of thought. Last night, it was remembering the guys he'd served with in Kosovo. Frank, Hank Lutrell, and the half dozen other men who never came back or worse, came back but could never readjust. Readjusting was more difficult than most people imagined; not only was it a culture shock; it was learning that you no longer had to live on adrenaline, always alert in order to survive.

Temperance hid in the shadows of the hallway, leaning her shoulder against the wall and simply watching. Watching his face change with his thoughts, watching the tightening of his muscles and the various ways he held his drink. Sometimes he rested it on his leg, wrapping his fingers around the glass. Other times he set the glass on the couch next to him, leaned against his thigh and his fingers holding it steady as they latched around the top.

She had heard him yell Parker's name, but knew he would have been self-conscious if she had checked on him. To be honest, she was hesitant – _afraid_ – to check on him. She didn't know what would have been expected of her.

"Anthropologically speaking, gambling can be seen as dying or being reborn."

Booth's head snapped up and he met her steady gaze. He knew she was in the shadows – _once a sniper, always a sniper_ – but he'd been wondering when – _or if_ - she'd make her presence known.

_Leave it to her to automatically say something about the anthropological meaning of gambling – when will I learn?_

Setting his almost-empty glass on the coffee table, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and met her eyes again.

"We gamble every day, Bones."

Temperance padded over to the couch and sat next to him. She didn't know whether to confront him about the nightmare, ignore it, or simply leave him alone. She wanted to give him his space, but she didn't want him to be alone. She mirrored his position and tilted her head towards his body.

"You gambled with your life as a soldier, Booth. It's perfectly normal to seek that out in other forms after fighting in a war."

Booth looked at her, and she flinched when she saw the anger in his eyes. Besides being narrowed, his usually playful gaze was lifeless. She could handle foreign lands, ruthless soldiers, and ice-cold murderers – _or was it stone cold?_ – but this scared her more than anything. She wasn't afraid he'd hurt her, but she also wasn't sure he had total control of his mind. She hated psychology, but she wasn't blind to its principles; she had been to war-torn nations and seen the effects of post-traumatic stress.

"What do you know about fighting in a war?"

He said it so quietly that she almost missed it. Regardless, she had no idea how to respond. She knew what war did to a body, knew how it could affect the mind, but he was right – she didn't know first-hand what it was like to fight in a war.

"Nothing, Booth. Why don't you tell me?"

Booth blinked. She hadn't said it sarcastically; it was a perfectly innocent question. Asked because, he was guessing, she wanted to get him talking. He didn't want to talk, damn it!

Bounding to his feet, he walked around the couch. Pacing back and forth, he counted his steps in an effort to relax. Bones always spouted anthropological facts, he knew that, but hearing it right after a nightmare got to him. His fists were clenched at his sides and he could feel his shoulders tensing.  
_  
I was just starting to relax, and now this!_

"Booth?"

He stopped pacing and looked at her. She was sitting sideways on the couch, resting her forearm on the back of it. Her face was full of genuine concern, not the pity he was used to. He didn't want concern, he wanted her pity. He wanted to scream at her and slam the door so hard her walls shook. Grabbing the back of the couch with both hands, he felt his pulse pounding from the force of his grip. His eyes snapped to where her warm hand tentatively covered his.

_Is it warm in here? Is she nervous? Oh God, do I make her nervous?_

His shoulders slumped and he dropped his head. He didn't want to take it out on her, and the only way to make sure was to leave. Thinking about his dream, he knew one of his biggest fears was coming true.

"You hated me," he whispered.

When he was younger, there were many times when he wished he could close his eyes tight enough to make himself disappear. He was older now, but the pain he was drowning in reminded him of those thoughts, and he found himself wishing the same thing again. He couldn't deal with the images of Parker yet, but this was a fear he could face. Barely. He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes; her piercing stare faded as her eyes widened and she lowered her gaze.

"I-I'm sorry."

He managed to - _I hope_ - look casual as he walked to the kitchen. As soon as he was out of her line of sight, he ran for the cabinets. His heart was beating out of his chest, his mouth dry, and his stomach clenched with the weighted fear that coming here was a horrible idea. He quickly and haphazardly searched for what he needed, starting at the closest cabinet. Finally finding what he was looking for, he snatched the bottle from a lower cabinet, set it on the counter, and reached for a hi-ball glass. His hand shook as he set the glass on the counter and opened the bottle of amber liquid. The bottle tapped against the rim as he poured, the clinking of glass against glass setting even more on edge. He didn't worry about closing the bottle, focused on gulping his drink in the hope that it would help settle his nerves. His eyes shut as he drank, savoring the slow burn of the alcohol and trying to escape some of his anxiety.

_I said too much, scared her._ _No, Temperance would never be afraid of me. Would she? Shit, what did I do? I need to leave, deal with this alone..._

He opened his eyes and set the glass down. Still drowning in panic, he made his way out of the kitchen at a hurried pace. He reached for the doorknob and strangled it with his grip. Booth clamped his eyes shut when he felt her lithe fingers slip into his free hand.

"Please," he whispered pleadingly.

Temperance was unsure what to do, how to help him, but she knew he shouldn't - _couldn't_ - leave. She was fairly certain he wouldn't hurt himself - _though_ _not certain enough to let him go _- but she also knew that going back to the casino and losing himself in gambling was a possibility. Losing himself in her, however, was a better option, whether it was just sitting with her, talking to her - hell, even kissing her. At this point, she'd do anything to remove that frenzied look from his eyes.

Taking a second to observe him, she noticed the rigid muscles of his legs, arms and shoulders. Her eyes trailed to the hand opposite the one she was holding - _rather, that he was squeezing - _and were drawn to the whites of his knuckles and fingertips. She wondered how bad it hurt to hold on so tight, and then remembered something she'd observed about PTSD - physical pain could act as a release.

_Or something they think they deserve._

"Booth..."

She was proud her voice held only a slight waver, the kind most people would miss. She doubted Booth noticed; he was too overloaded with panic and pain - _that he would deny if asked. _She lightly tugged his hand, trying to cut through the fog he seemed to be in. His head snapped up and his hand jerked in hers. His eyes regarded her with anguish. She forced her lips into a small smile in an effort to calm his nerves. She was skeptical that it would work, but hoped it would - _at least_ - reassure him. She tugged again, a little harder this time.

"Sit with me."

Her free hand reached out and covered the hand that was latched to the doorknob. As his grip relaxed, she slowly pulled his thumb off and forced her hand - palm up - between his hand and the knob. She drew his hand toward her - _away from the door _- and released it, letting it drop to his side. Tugging the hand she still held, she guided him to the couch.

He fell to the couch with an audible sigh. She sat beside him, folding her leg underneath herself, and leaned forward to meet his down-turned eyes. He seemed to be avoiding her eyes. She sighed, wondering what, if anything, he was thinking now. She guessed he was nervous and, most likely, embarrassed to be seen as weak. His head popped up and his eyes scanned her living area before focusing on her. His brow creased as he took another look around and, this time, came back to stare at their joined hands. She stole her hand back and, at the look of hurt in his eyes, regretted it.

"Do you... want some water?"

She was on edge, mostly because she was scared of him running - _again_. He needed help, needed her, and because of that she no longer cared that she didn't know how to help him. He needed her help, period. This wasn't the Booth she knew; the Booth she knew was cocky and stubborn, with an unwavering dedication to helping others.

"Sure..." he mumbled.

He scrubbed his hands over his face before slouching into the couch. His head dropped back and he closed his eyes, trying to remember what happened. Everything since his nightmare was jumbled up in his head and his muscles hurt from the tension. He could feel himself relaxing, though that was partly because his hands were curled into fists and his fingernails dug into his palms. Feeling the cushions move, he opened his eyes and turned his head. She was setting his water on the table and as she leaned back he shut his eyes again.

_I can't believe I let her see that..._

"Why did you try to leave?"

He was strangely comforted by her bluntness. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. He still wouldn't meet her eyes. Slowly he grabbed the glass of water and, after taking a long sip, rested it on his leg.

"It was me... I cut off Donovan Decker's finger."

"You saved him, Booth."

He shook his head. She didn't get it, didn't understand. These were his demons, he knew that - he just wanted _someone_ to understand.

"Please, I want to help. Tell me how to help."

Never had he heard her sound so...scared. Scared _for_ him, not _of_ him. He scrubbed his hand over his face and took another drink of water before putting it on the table.

"My nightmare. You were there. You asked me why I did it."

"Why did you?"

He stole a look at her; she mimicked his position on the couch and looked at him with concern.

"I had to, was ordered to."

Her hand covered his shoulder, and more of the tension dripped out of him.

"What about Parker?"

He cringed at her straightforward tone, but knew he owed her an answer. While he was embarrassed at what she saw, he admitted that he was proud of her for helping him through this. Though he'd never tell her, he really did prefer this to what usually happened when he had an episode - sitting in the dark and getting too drunk to think about it.

"I...I shot him."

He felt her move closer and hesitantly wrap her arms around his neck. His eyes closed and he tilted his head, falling against her shoulder. The emotions took over and, even as his brain screamed not to, he sagged into her. Her body tensed at first contact, but she soon relaxed and hugged him closer.

"Thank you."

He whispered it into her neck, and felt her slight shiver as his lips brushed her skin. He was too exhausted to think about what that meant or how it made him feel. He desperately wanted to lose himself in her - _in every way_ - but this wasn't the time. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. It would happen soon, he was sure of it.

_A bet I won't lose._

--

_This is listed as complete, but I'll be thinking about whether to add more._


End file.
